


Fragments

by Abasio



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amputee, Amputee Sherlock, Disability, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7065883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abasio/pseuds/Abasio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock loses both his arms in an explosion. This is the story of his recovery and John and Sherlock's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all!
> 
> This is my first fanfiction, so feedback is very appreciated regarding grammar and how the story reads. Thanks for reading!

     The lights shut off for the night, and John finally closed his eyes in a futile attempt at sleep. After listening to the incessant ticking of the clock for what had to be an hour, he opened his eyes, sighed deeply, re-positioned himself in the chair, and gave up all hope of trying to sleep that night. He found even a darkened room to be better company than his own mind, and knew that sleep would take him when he no longer gave it any thought. 

     He was startled awake in the morning by voices in the hallway. The room was still dark, but he could see the sky was brightening through the crack in the curtains. The light shone on Sherlock's dark curls, and John could not resist burying his fingers deep into the hair. At least the explosion hadn't taken that from Sherlock, John thought, though he knew Sherlock was unlikely to see it that way when he was eventually awakened. John was having a hard time remaining optimistic himself, especially as it was a scenario he'd seen far too often in Afghanistan.

     Sherlock lay completely still, bright blue tubing extending from his mouth, pumping air into his damaged lungs and hissing conspicuously with each breath. He was being kept in an induced coma until he could breathe reasonably well on his own. A smaller yellow tube hung from his nose, feeding him, and a urinary catheter snaked from underneath the sheet to a bag hanging by the bedside. He was thin, and bruised, and had a long row of stitches down his stomach where the surgeons had had to go in and find the source of his bleeding. He'd required multiple blood transfusions until they could fix it. Several ribs were broken, and that was another blessing of the ventilator, thought John; it would have been too painful for him to breath on his own with burned lungs and broken ribs, as difficult as it was to see him this way. Sherlock's eardrums had both burst in the blast as well, but thankfully, these would heal completely. He would still have impaired hearing for a while upon waking up.

     The worst of it was not the addition of stitches and tubes, however. John forced himself to drag his eyes to the bandages. Both arms were missing up to the shoulder, without even a stump left. One had been crushed under a column. The other had been so severely burned in the fire resulting from the explosion that it had to be removed. Sherlock had also suffered minor burns on that side of his face and body, but he was rescued before irreparable damage had been done.

     John forced himself to stare at Sherlock's shoulders until he couldn't take it anymore. His heart clenched, and a wave of nausea came over him. He'd have to get used it, he knew. He knew Sherlock would think of himself as deformed, as a freak, as unworthy of John's affection. John did not want Sherlock to see his his own fear, his own pain, or anything but concern or love when Sherlock woke up. He'd seen many cases like this in Afghanistan, and operated on many himself. He'd performed many amputations in his lifetime. But this, on Sherlock, was so _wrong._ He had to make himself believe it was true. He had to stop being disturbed by the appearance of Sherlock's torso. So he remained by the bedside, hand in Sherlock's hair, looking at Sherlock's body, until he could take it no longer. And then he would make tea, ignore the night nurses who came to take hourly vitals and perform ventilator maintenance, and return to his watch, until the sun was up.

 


End file.
